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| Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash |
Rage like wind blows through the land. It is powerful. It is
mesmerizing. You only hope that when it’s over that the damage is minimal. But
right now as it rages, you wonder.
The Santa Ana winds are blowing today. Out of the Northeast they
race down my street, blowing the trees to bending and rattling the awning above
my window.
I usually love the wind, the way it wakes me up and
energizes me. That was the wind I grew up with, the cold, wet nor’easter or the
wild stormy winds from the west. But here, the wildest winds come from the
desert to the east and are warm and dry. They are unsettling. They make me
anxious. They often increase the risk of fire in this arid land.
This country has become arid, unable to hold the moisture of
compassion, the fluidity of uncertainty. Will the rage that is blowing now
enflame us all?
The wild Santa Ana winds can wreak havoc. The damage they do
may be a few downed trees or raging fires. But they also clear the air and make
it easier to breathe as long as fire doesn’t rise.
Maybe it is time to rage like the wind, to call on Santa
Ana, the mother of Mary, the grandmother of Jesus. We could use a powerful mother
and grandmother right about now. She has long been the patron saint of my
family. We went on pilgrimage to her shrine in Quebec every year to ask for
healing for my brother. And he was healed. He never exhibited the worst
symptoms of his condition.
Rage ignites us. We feel it because something is terribly
wrong. We can no longer let ourselves or others be harmed. We can no longer
allow the Earth to be damaged. She has her own rage and it knows no mercy. The
raw power of Nature has been unleashed on Earth and within the women. The
unheralded cry of the banshee whips through us, through the land, through the
construct we live under.
Feel the wind, feel the rage. Let it clear the air. Let it
blow through and let it make your eyes water. Let’s turn this storm into one of
tears. Let our rage rise, let our passions be roused so it may reveal the
compassion that is waiting just behind the pain. The wailing of the banshee
need not herald our deaths and the death of the planet. It can be a cry to take
down the destructive construct of patriarchy and our interior walls of hate and
shame.
The wind continues to rattle and rouse everything on my
street. My rage continues to rattle my heart and rouse my soul. But the tears
are what will prevent the all-consuming fire and bring healing. And when they
flow my world works again. Eyes and heart wide open we can face what we’ve
become and know it is not who we are. We are ever becoming even as an eternal
flame, steady and strong, burns at our center.
In the wails of the banshee I hear her heart sing, “You are
wind. You are fire. You are earth. You are water. You are One. Don’t try to
contain anything. Let it flow. You always dance on the edge of creation. When
you take your next step, who will you be?”
